Along About Moonlight

I see him trying to put on
his good day face for me
as he walks toward our car
at the train station.

We have grown older. I say
older and not old. Are any
of us ever old? He opens the
car door and smiles to make

us young again. I smile and
ferry him home where he will
reveal that someone was fired
and another demoted.

On nights like this, I wish that I
could offer myself at twenty. I
want to be the first bird that
sings of a new day.


Take to the Sky

This morning has been punctuated
by a woodpecker, unable to think of
anything, but his duty to percussive
accompaniment. He is the one rhythm
that wakes me, that dances in my
half-sleep-weekend-mind where
the whole of Sunday lies ahead,
free and clear of Monday as though
the week may never come, as if a bird
was rapping at the window suggesting
we fly away, thinking this the best of
all possible worlds – this setting our
sights on the sky.

All Manner of Butterflies

Soon they come – the butterflies –
taking life lightly, no mortgage
payments, no car payments with
two children in college. I forget
myself and float free of concerns
above the scent of grass clippings
in the yard.

Love soaking these white paper
plates with orange slices that
pungent the sun attracting all
manner of butterflies who are
sure that what is free is theirs,
and today everything is free in
this moment.